Juniper
by Faldon113
Summary: The very first Hunger Games, as seen through the eyes of a tribute. Written for a class.


_Juniper_

_Juniper berries were used by many Native American tribes for various uses. It was believed that juniper trees and berries had protective power against spirits. The berries were also used in many medicines. Juniper berries could be bitter or sweet, depending on the environment in which they were grown. However, the most common use of the berries in edible ways was as a hunger suppressant. The berries were eaten when there was little food, because they soothed the hunger pains._

I'm not sure what woke me up. Maybe a sixth sense. Well, no, it was probably a twig snap. It couldn't have been that loud, but after years of war and fighting, I'm a pretty light sleeper. Have to be in order to survive. So yeah, it was probably the snapping of a twig that saved my life as I barely manage to roll away before the spear head is buried in the ground where my chest had been. Unfortunately for my attacker, I roll _towards_ them, knocking their feet out and sending them crashing to the ground. They'd barely hit the ground before my knife is out of its sheath and buried in their neck, savagely ripping through arteries and tissue. For a second our eyes meet and I watch as the life fades away until there is nothing left. With an angry grunt, I rip my knife free and get to my feet. Grabbing my pack, I stalk away, trying to ignore the blood on my hands as the sound of a canon fills the valley.

She couldn't have been more then thirteen-years-old.

Finding a small stream, I stop to clean the knife and get as much of the blood off of my hands as I can. There can't be many of us left. Five? Six? No doubt the Capitol will start forcing us together, trying to incite conflicts. After all, they can't afford to let the masses get bored. What was the point of the Games if there was no blood?

Sighing, I get back on my feet and look around. Forest, forest, forest, as far as the eye can see. No clearings, no open spaces, just trees. The kids from District 7 are probably having a blast. No, wait, the boy is dead, isn't he? Yeah, that District 1 kid killed him on the first day. So it's only the girl that is left. Weren't they siblings, or something like that?

Shaking the thoughts off, I jog back into the underbrush. The sun isn't up yet, but the sky is pinkish in the direction I assume is east, so sunrise can't be too far away. I have maybe half-an-hour before full light. Just enough time to figure out a plan for the day. But, first things first, I check over my bow for damage and recount my arrows. With so few tributes left, the fighting is only going to become more intense. It would be really bad if I ran out of ammo when I need it most.

A slight noise has me subtly glancing over my shoulder. There is another set of footsteps following me, matching my steps almost perfectly. Whoever they are, they know tracking theory, but aren't well practiced in it. It must be the last kid from District 12. He's old enough to have been getting ready to fight in the war, but too young to actually be a part of any battles. Moodily, I finger the string of my bow. I wish killing young teens was the worst thing I'd ever done.

It isn't often that I doubt the choice I'd made to rebel against the Capitol. The Districts had been treated like scum for decades, and my District had finally had enough. We'd thrown ourselves into the war with a fervor that I had never seen before. Despite being all of fourteen when the war began, I was on the front lines from the very first battle. In time, I'd become one of the leaders of the rebellion, the one that was always out front leading the soldiers. However, that meant that the Capitol knew my name and face better than any other. When this event, these _Hunger Games_, was created, part of the peace treaty stated that I had to participate.

It wasn't really a fair fight, though fair was the last thing the Capitol cared about. I had three years of war experience. These children were lucky if they had any military training at all. Only five of us had any real battle experience, leaving us with a distinct advantage over the others. The thought was so disgusting, I had come very close to refusing to play. Just letting some lucky kid kill me in the first few minutes of confusion, or even ending my life myself. However, the boy that had come with me had worried that refusing to play by the Capitol's rules would mean the return of hostilities against the Districts. I didn't mind dying, but not if my demise would be the cause of an untold number of innocent deaths. So yes, I killed. To be fair, I probably had more kills than any other tribute. Its what happened when you threw a soldier in with a bunch of children. And it wasn't like my hands weren't already stained red with the blood of hundreds. What was a few more?

I know the moment the District 12 kid decides he's going to attack. His steps become less even and harsher as more of the leafy floor is disturbed. Being careful to choose an open path between the trunks, I lightly finger the nocked arrow. My time to aim will be short, but with how much noise the teen is now making, I'm not too concerned. What _is_ worrisome is not knowing what type of weapon he has. A sword or a knife won't pose too much of a threat if I can keep some distance between us, but there had been throwing knives and blow darts in the Cornucopia thing. A long distance weapon could take me down before I can dodge. Not that that would be bad, all things considered.

Lightly covering a rough section of the forest floor and smoothly avoiding all the exposed roots, I wait. It doesn't take too long before there is a cry as the unsuspecting teen trips over the hidden danger. The sound locates the target in my mind so that when I quickly turn back towards him I barely see the boy at all before I release the arrow smoothly, my body continuing the spin even as the arrow speeds away. As it always does, the arrow flew true, piercing the boy through the eye. He drops without a sound, though my heart wrenches as though he had screamed in agony. I still remember the first time I made that type of shot. I had been sick for a week, thinking about the arrow sticking out of the man's face. Now, I don't even twitch as I go back and pull the arrow free, wiping it clean on a large leaf as I walk away, the canon going off above me yet again.

It's nearly noon when the canon goes off twice more in rapid succession. That means the Games are down to the final two. I wonder who the other tribute is. Probably someone from District 1 or 2. Both of the Districts had sided with the Capitol in the war, so their teens are not as weak or starving as the tributes from the other Districts. The District 4 kids had been the same, but I know it isn't them because I'd killed them both the first day. The girl, because she'd attacked me, howling something about my killing her brother, which was possible. The boy, because he'd killed the boy that I had come here with. It still hurts to think about it. I had promised his mother years ago that I would protect him. Instead, all I could do was hold him as he died. He'd always been afraid of dying alone and I couldn't let that happen, but it had been agony to watch him slowly fade away before my eyes.

But those were thoughts I couldn't allow myself the luxury of remembering. The Capitol would probably attempt to force the two of us together soon. After weeks of fighting, the long awaited Grand Finale is upon us, and the very worst thing in the world would be for the audience to become bored while the tribute's stumbled around. So far as I can figure, I have two options; wait for the Capitol to arrange events so that the final tribute and I fight it out, or take actions so that the confrontation is on my own terms. Both options have merit, but I was never one to sit idly by and wait for others to call the shots. If this was going to be the fight that would determine the rest of my life, it would do so because I chose it.

With my destination clear in my mind, I start jogging through the ever shifting maze of trees. In the entire forest, there was one open area. A lake in the dead-center of the arena. It had a small clear area around its border, too perfectly formed to be anything short of a human creation. However, it gave uninterrupted field of vision and more than enough room to maneuver. At the lake, I would see the other tribute coming long before they reached me, and my bow and arrows would have a distinct advantage. Hopefully, that would be enough.

The forest flew by as I settled into the measured pace that all soldiers had pounded into their bones. It wasn't the fastest by a long shot, but I could maintain my speed for hours if needed, so the distance shrunk rapidly. After so many years of traveling, it's second nature to let my mind wander as I move. I thought of plans for the fight, I try to puzzle out who my opponent will be, I do many things. The lake had just begun to appear through the trees when I realize what I had failed to do. I'm not paying attention to my surroundings. The sound of cloth against wood barely manages to penetrate my mental fog and I realize that I had walked straight into an ambush. Because I had planned an honorable combat, I forgot that the other tribute might disagree.

Off balance, I wrench around towards the warning sound, quickly attempting to draw an arrow from my quiver, but I seriously underestimated the tribute's speed. I mange to dodge the beheading strike and vaguely realize that my opponent is male, but the blade comes back around sooner than expected, and cuts a bloody furrow along my face, narrowly missing my eye and making all irrelevant thoughts cease.

With a sound that is half snarl and half cry, I reflexively grab the tribute's arm and use his lunging momentum to throw him over my hip and into a nearby tree. However, he is back on his feet faster than I anticipated, and I have to roll away from another wild strike. With a roar, he keeps hacking at me, lacking in technique but more than making up for it in speed and strength. Close combat has never been my forte, so I'm at a distinct disadvantage, scrambling away through the leaf litter more often than not. We both know the tables would turn if I could just get an arrow in the air, and the tribute is determined to not let that happen.

A part of me wonders what I have to look like as the fight is broadcast across Panem, frantically stumbling through the forest and underbrush while being pursued by a maniac with a sword, but the majority of my mind is calmly going over the situation, planning out different strategies. There is no such thing as an un-winnable situation, as the war proved again and again. I just need to stay alive long enough to figure out what the answer is, or even to create my own.

The opportunity comes as my hand suddenly plunges deep into a mulch pile. Working more on instinct than any actual thought or plan, I grab a handful and spin around, throwing it all in my attacker's face. He stumbles back with a cry, eyes shut tight, but when he opens them again my arrow is already loose. It strikes him in the upper thigh, making him fall with a scream of rage and pain. Breathing harshly, I back away, putting more distance between us as I draw a second arrow, quickly aiming it between his eyes. For a moment, we just stare at each other. He can't get up with his leg like it is, and I am still struggling to catch my breath. I'm not used to being the mouse in a cat-vs-mouse game.

"Do it!" he suddenly yells. "Kill me! Become the victor!" The voice is painfully familiar, and I realize that I know him. He's from District 2. We'd fought before; I was the one to give him the scar across his chest that could barely be seen through his shirt. He'd been a hero for the Capitol in the war, yet here he was, slated to die for the amusement of the masses like every other tribute. Their hero, sent to the slaughter.

I'd played the Capitol's game. I'd followed their rules. I'd thrown away any pride or morals I'd managed to cling to during the war. I'd watched friends die in my arms. I'd killed children that had barely started to live. And in this moment, I know I can do it again. All it would take is a twitch of my fingers, and his life would end. I have the power over his life, and the rush is as intoxicating as it has always been.

Instead, I ease the tension off the bowstring and lower the arrow till it points at the ground, slack in my grip. No more killing. No more playing. I will not dance to the Capitol's tune any longer. And just to make sure everything is perfectly clear, I finally speak, for the first time since my name had been drawn in that farce of a Reaping so long ago.

"They can't have a victor from District 13."

I hear the shot before the round tears through my chest. Guess the Capitol was tired of subtly trying to kill me off. There is a moment when I can see the shock on the District 2 guy's face, but then I'm falling. It feels like there is a large hole in my chest, and there probably is. Someone is yelling. The 2 guy? Shouldn't he be happy? We were the last, so this meant that he wins. He gets to go home and try to forget that the Capitol had thrown him into this butcher game to begin with.

As I hit the ground, I think about my son. He'll be a year old in three days. Man, this sucks. I want to see him again; hold him one more time. I know my brother will take care of him, but still, it won't be the same. Hopefully they got to District 12 safely. It won't be the easiest life, but it will be better than living like a mouse in District 13. My child will know the sun and the forest. He'll know how to live, not just how to survive. He'll know how to hope, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

Above me, I see something moving in a forest that had been almost painfully still. A mockingjay. The Capitol's mistake. I hadn't seen any in the arena before, and feel a pang in my chest when I realize I can't sing to it. Or maybe I am just feeling the cavity in my chest. The bird looks down at me, standing out vividly with its black body and white markings against the deep green of the leaves. Considering their creation story, the unintentional breeding of the mockingbird and the jabberjay, it looks oddly natural. Like it had always been meant to exist, instead of being the mistake of some idiots in the Capitol and the fortune of chance. Strange, how something so beautiful can come out of something so ugly.

Maybe the Games are the same way. Laying in a pool of my own blood, I can't help but feel that there is no redeemable quality in this torture that the Capitol has concocted for the District's to soothe an imagined wound. And the Games would repeat, year after year, never changing for the better. They would only get worse and worse as each Game would try to be even bigger and bloodier than the last. But maybe, just maybe, something good could come out of the Games. Maybe when the world has had time to recover and starts looking at the truth once more. Maybe when the Districts realize that they don't need to keep taking this sort of abuse. Maybe then, the Games could be the start of something good.

I'm just sorry I won't live to see it.

My vision is nearly gone but I can still hear the District 2 guy calling to me, though he sounds far away. At least, I think he's talking to me. He keeps saying Jay. Jay, Jay, Jay, Jay, Jay, enough already! That's not my name. Everyone thought it would be cool for the leader of the rebellion to be called the Mockingjay as a way of thumbing our nose at the Capitol, but I never agreed to that! I have a name, thank you very much. God help my brother if he gives the name Mockingjay to my son. I swear, I'll come back from the grave and kill him myself. If any name is going to be passed on, it will be my real name. Juniper Everdeen.

Oh, the District 2 guy shut up. Did I say my name out loud? Oops. That wasn't supposed to happen. I take it back! The Capitol can't know my name; they'll go after my son! I take it back!

"Take what back?"

Startled, I open my eyes to see something I never thought I'd see again. Micheal. Isn't he supposed to be dead? Of course, he died in my arms in the arena! So why is he...?

Oh, yeah. Guess I'm dead too.

Micheal must have seen the moment I realized what had happened, because he smiles sadly at me. "Come on, June," he says, offering a hand to help me get up. "Let's get out of here." With a smile of my own, I take his hand and let him pull me away from everything that had happened. For me, at least, the Games are over.


End file.
